


crumbling into pieces

by More_night



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 13:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18344426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/More_night/pseuds/More_night
Summary: Francis and James wait out a storm in their tent. Fitzier. Canon compliant, but hope is possible.





	crumbling into pieces

 

 

A gale is about to hit them from the West as they hug the shore. Clouds cover the May polar sun that never truly sets. They stop to make camp. Some of the men collapse where they are, on the rocks. Others use their remaining strength to put up the one large tent they have kept to house the infirmary.  
  
The officers hold their command meeting in one of the smaller tents. Le Vesconte lights a lantern that will give them some warmth. Thomas Blanky and James Fitzjames sit on a worn mattress on the ground, their back against a crate.  
  
They do not have water enough for tea. Lieutenant Little lists the food that they have left. His beard is darker where blood seeps through the skin. "We have 52 tinned potatoes, 102 tinned soup, 217 tinned meat and 44 tinned vegetables. And five crates of biscuits; eight pounds of chocolate and three of tea."  
  
"What is left of the deer Mr. Hartnell killed five days past?" Francis asks.  
  
"Nothing, sir. The men finished it this morning," Little says. "We also have the two geese Lieutenant Jopson shot two days ago..."  
  
Le Vesconte pats Jopson on the shoulder where he sits with him by the lamp. Jopson gives a tired, proud grin that strains his cracked lips. "We'll roast them and boil the carcasses in whatever water is left, for the sick," Little finishes his report.  
  
James clears his voice. As of two days ago, a wheezing raspy sound has come on his tongue. "Whatever the coming storm brings, we should dispose crates outside to collect the rain or snow."  
  
"Yes," Francis approves. "Weigh the crates with rocks so the wind may not overturn them. Henry, can you take care of it?"  
  
Le Vesconte nods tiredly.  
  
"Me mum used to roast a goose on me dad's birthday," Thomas Blanky tells. "Stuffed with maroons and plums. In this moment, I'd sure give my other leg for it."  
  
The assembled officers hum.  
  
"I would surely help myself to some berry jam, and rye bread," Jopson says.  
  
"Pudding," Le Vesconte says. "With cherries."  
  
"A pint of Allsopp's, for God's sake," James confesses.  
  
"Sweat peas, fresh from the garden," Francis says.  
  
He does not know if this worsens the men's mood or not. Proving him right in the former, Lieutenant Little's eyes slowly fill with tears, as if he cannot stand the thought of food that is at the same time not poison. "Alright," Francis says. "Enough, men." And he wraps an arm around Edward's shoulders. The chuckles and smiles vanish from the men's lips.  
  
Little runs his bandaged fingers over his eyes. "Apologies, Sir."  
  
"Don't," Francis says, quietly. Then, louder. "That's all for now. Find a tent and settle down in your sacks. When the gale is upon us, the wind will keep us awake. Get as much sleep as you can now. Tell the men to stay in their tents and wait it out. It might last more than a day."  
  
  
  
  
They have six tents for the three dozens they are. As a result of what is perhaps one of the last remaining mark of rank, the two Captains are left one tent to themselves.  
  
The effects of scurvy and whatever the tins contain that poison the men's minds and bodies have been slow to manifest in Francis. Outwardly, there are little to be seen; like them all, he has lost two stones and, with his undershirt hanging from him, he looks older, but his skin is clean from the sores and bruises that most of the men wear now.  
  
But, as James finds when they share a tent, then a sack, it is almost impossible for Francis to sleep.  
  
"Your duties worry you, your mind must rail all night. Sometimes, you seem to be pulling the weight of our three boats on your own."  
  
"It is not that," Francis says. "I close my eyes and I see London, and Whitehall. England, Ireland." He chuckles. "I even saw my sisters in Banbridge, knitting by the fire."  
  
"Home..."  
  
"If ever it was that."  
  
Francis looks at him with his eyes wrinkled and a chuckle that James would never have thought to see on his face. He had seen Francis laugh with Blanky, smoking on many fateful nights on Terror. His laugh then was one so free and offhand, as never he had laughed, when rarely he had, at one of the officers' Sunday dinners. But his smiles to James now are not so either. They are not devoid of a lingering sadness, not without hope, but only tired. It was camaraderie that Francis shared with Thomas Blanky; James and Francis share more than this now.  
  
They both lie on their side in their common sack, their coats piled atop them to contain their bodies' warmth, as best they can.  
  
The storm is raging outside. Francis has yet to sleep and James listens to the wind and the drafts of snow and ice on their tent.  
  
James's pale sweater has turned a dull gray. They barely have sufficient water to drink and cook, and whatever they can save they keep to wash their injured men, clean their faces and shave, as rarely as they could do so lately. Francis's black sweater has holes at every seam and end. Both their faces are covered in the sandy dust that their steps draw from the rocks of King William Island.  
  
The storm has brought a darkness that is not exactly the one of nighttime. In it, James sees Francis's eyes, open still, wandering. He does not know what to tell Francis to keep at bay the visions of home.  
  
Once Francis startles from one of these strange, waking moments, telling James, "She chose well. I would not have made her happy."  
  
"Don't say that."  
  
Francis turns eyes to him that can not be more different than those that had glanced back at him, sharp and wounded, in Terror's dining room, the last time Sophia Cracroft's name had been spoken between them. "She knows what life she wants. There is a noblety in her certainty. I cannot take it from her."  
  
James thinks that talking to Francis in these moments helps; he cannot be sure, but it seems to. Yet, he was never skilled to speak with the direct candor that Francis can easily muster. He can only either tell secrets never before uttered, or speak of romances and adventures. Francis has never been much interested in the latter, although, when nowadays there are occasions for James to tell some of his tales, he listens politely with a knowing glint to his eye, which James is certain is invisible for all but him.  
  
Hence, with Francis he shares secrets. Perhaps it does distract Francis from the turmoil of his visions; and perhaps also, now that James has told him about the circumstances of his birth, the vanities unravel and he finds there are no things he can keep from Francis.  
  
While the storm lashes above them, he says, "In Hertfordshire, I had a nurse from a young age. A Portuguese lady, named Rumb. She spoke in Portuguese with me when my aunt and uncle were absent or could not hear. I understood the language still as a teenager."  
  
"Do you still speak it?"  
  
Searching his mind, James closes his eyes. The words he speaks come from a place so deeply buried, it feels like it disrobes him of all the clothes he wears. It is foreign to his own ears, yet the sounds fit well on his tongue and in his mouth. There is something of it that reminds him of Russian.  
  
"Rogai por nós Santa Mãe de Deus, para que sejamos dignos das promessas de Cristo."  
  
Francis listens quietly, then asks, "What does it mean?"  
  
"It is a prayer. I believe to the Virgin Mary." Francis smiles. James has not needed to mention that he had likely, in that distant past where the Portuguese tongue and his birthdate lodged, been baptized as a Catholic infant. He picks the thread of his story. "On Sundays, Rumb would bake delicacies for me and my brother. They were small tarts, with spiced custard. She called them pasteis. I've never had one since I joined the Navy."  
  
"You'll eat them again."  
  
James only closes his eyes. He cannot bear to lose hope himself, he knows. And he cannot bear to let Francis become aware of what little hope he has left in him.  
  
  
  
  
The storm lasts for the remainder of the day and part of the next. None of them leave their tents. The snow has turned to rain. They will have enough water to drink, boil the little game they found; maybe even to wash.  
  
James tells Francis of the resolve he had taken at age 14, to name London as his birthplace. "I know the date of my baptism, but I learned about the date of my birth only some years ago. From my aunt."  
  
"When is it? Your birthday?"  
  
"July 27." James swallows and lets his head sink in their flat, cold pillow.  
  
His thoughts must be obvious because Francis says, "We will still be marching, come July. We might even have sighted the mainland."  
  
"Francis, I do not know if it is hope that moves you so. Or if you are simply dreadfully obstinate."  
  
He ears Francis's huff more than he sees his smile in the dark.  
  
James feels Francis's hand in his hair, then. His hair has grown longer since they have abandoned ships. The first stroke of Francis's fingers is hesitant and uncertain; it is not even yet as fully-formed as a question. At the second stroke, James thinks he senses a question now, although both of them are silent. All he can hear is the soft noise of their breathings; the storm outside suddenly seems far.  
  
At the third stroke of his hair, Francis's hand is more a request than a question.  
  
"Francis."  
  
He hears Francis swallowing in the dim darkness. The hand stills in his hair and stays on his neck, warm and heavy.  
  
James places his fingers on Francis's wrist, under and beyond the cuff of his shirt. He feels things friends sometimes know but  almost never feel about each other -- he feels how fast Francis's heart beats, like a nervous, shy bird in the pulse at his wrist. His friendship with Francis had been unexpected. It had surprised him, after Carnivale. The strength of it had never since stopped to stupefy him. Now, he feels it crumbling into pieces under his feet, only to let him fall into something else than friendship entirely. It is as frightening as it is exhilarating.  
  
"Are we this too, Francis?"  
  
Francis's answer is to bring their faces close together. "You feel it also?"  
  
"Yes," James says. "Yes."  
  
Above their heads, the thunder claps. Lightning illuminates the tent and James sees Francis's face: his brow wears a small frown, curious, amazed at what he has discovered; his blue eyes are wrinkled and tired; his mouth smiles some, perhaps because he has, like James, found such an unlikely wonder in such a forsaken place.  
  
Their kiss is like many each of them has given, but also entirely different. They are mindful and Francis cups James's face like he had Sophia's, years prior, stroking his thumb across his jaw. James snakes his arm under Francis's head and shifts their positions so that Francis is partly atop him.  
  
But the motion alone extracts a wheezing cough from him.  
  
Francis relents and lets James find his breathing again, holding him as he does. "Breathe, James. Breathe."  
  
Finally, James's breathing calms down. "I do wish I were not that weakened," he curses the scurvy.  
  
With a gleam in his eye, Francis helps him settle on his side. The wheezing takes some time to subside; Francis strokes his arm throughout.  
  
  
  
  
To anyone observing them, they would appear to be resting, face to face; but under the sack and pelts their legs have tangled.  
  
Like this, at last, Francis sleeps.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. James says the last verses of the Salve Regina in Portuguese.  
> 2\. This is a combination of my reading John Rae's narrative of his exploration of the Arctic shores, in which _a gale_ happens every few pages, and Battersby's book on Fitzjames.  
> 3\. Thanks to this fandom for existing, because I don't know what I would do with myself if I could not write these two together and flail about it.


End file.
